


for the fourth time, Fanris, it's a CENTURION

by doomedteaparty



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Drabble Collection, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-07-24 23:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16185419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomedteaparty/pseuds/doomedteaparty
Summary: a proud, stuck-up, chain-lightning-everything kind of mage and his dumb insufferable dragon boyfriend who STILL couldn't get dwarven names right.(a collection of short disjointed drabbles, hopefully in a chronological order)





	1. Amulet of Mara

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted on Tumblr.

 

 

"You really shouldn't wear that amulet in public."

They were sitting in a run-down tavern (or was it "cornerclub"?) in Windhelm, sipping a watered-down ale and waiting for the sunrise. Fanris gave him a nonchalant shrug. The man in front of him sighed, and continued.

"I say, you shouldn't wear that amulet in public. Have you seen the look on some of these Nords? They would gladly drag you to the altar _and_ the bedroom once they think you're available." And not just the Nords as well. He had been spying those "looks" from an Argonian worker by the Windhelm docks, and the Imperial lady in Riverwood who's already got two suitors in hand. Chaotic.

Fanris let out a hearty laugh. It was the kind of annoying, baritone laugh that grated the ears of most men, but oddly infectuous on him. Not this time, however. "Relax. It's not as bad as you picture it."

"Bad? This is _worse_." Marcurio scoffed, giving him a glare that used to work effectively on his lesser colleagues back in the University. It didn't seem to work on him. "Whatever these love-starved people are thinking whenever they see an Amulet of Mara, I don't want MY employer to be the one on the receiving end. You should've known better, really."

There was silence for a few seconds. Relaxing himself on the low-backed chair, Fanris stared at him briefly, smirked, and looked away. "And what if I say I _am_ looking for marriage?"

He was sure he heard thunder in a distance.

"You? ... Really?"

No, just his imagination. A loud, shocking, voluminous thunder which so happened to exist solely in his imagination.

"I heard Malborn is single." The man added. A wide grin escaped his lips as he glanced at the man in question. A Bosmer, sitting all by himself at the far corner of the room. He was chugging down a bottle of cheap nord mead with a particularly uncaring expression on his face.

Now, Marcurio was _sure_ he heard the imaginary thunder again.

"... The wood elf? Really? Why, you barely even know him!" The mage had to restrain himself from screaming. How could they possibly bond over a bunch of Thalmor soldiers, a quest to find a few obscure documents, and within such short time period to boot? He couldn't understand his way of thinking at all. "What's next, you want to marry a hagraven?"

"If you give me a strong enough drink, I just might." Fanris laughed again. "I'm joking, my friend! These bones aren't made for settling down. It'll be a long time before it happens..., if it happens at all."

"Good," was all Marcurio could say, as he drank the rest of his mead and sighed, feeling down all of a sudden.

Somehow, the thought of his employer getting married doesn't hold much appeal to him. He would probably be too occupied with his spouse and forget the mercenary altogether, rendering him jobless and having to go find another adventurer to work for. Going back to square one, as they say.

_And if he is happier with someone? Am I going to get in the way of that--just for my work and money?_

Marcurio thought for a moment. He'd earned quite enough money to settle down himself, buy a nice little house in Whiterun and open up a shop. Maybe even return to Cyrodiil once this civil war died down. Buy a slightly bigger house away from the Arcane University, and open up a shop there, too--or a museum? He could gather all the useless trinkets he had gathered in the various Dwemer ruins across Skyrim, send off some to the University, while he and his spouse went away to gather more Dwemer trinkets; their adopted children goofing off with friendly dwemer spiders and centurions....

Hold on. Where was he again?

The man in front of him had long since finished his drink, and he looked right across the mage with a certain expression on his face, as if wanting to say something but promptly abandoned it.

"If you care about this so much." He slipped the necklace inside his cuirass, hiding the jeweled amulet from view. "There. You're making this bigger than it seems, you know. I haven't even noticed a single person courting me yet."

Marcurio scoffed.

"You must be the most oblivious person in all of Tamriel, then."

There was something about his own statement that stung him, although he did not know what, or why. Oblivious. Unknowing. Unnoticed.


	2. A Gold Diamond Ring

 

 

A gold diamond ring sat forlornly on the table.

"... What's this, a proposal?" The man in front of him asked, almost with a surprised tone.

The Bannered Mare was packed full of people at this hour. From the bard, to the barmaid, to the drunk, pathetic-looking man who passed out on the floor holding an empty bottle of Argonian Ale; the two of them were merely spots of a much bigger painting. Unnoticed. Inessential.

"Your _payment_ , oaf," Fanris groaned. He pushed the ring closer to the man. "Pawn that thing off to Belethor or... or someone, I don't care. Must worth a few septims."

Marcurio picked up the ring cautiously and stared at it for a minute; his eyes trying to focus on the small, shiny thing in front of him. It was a beautiful ring, indeed. Fanris smiled nonchalantly.

_Do you like it?_

_Gods, this drunken façade better be workin' or I'd be caught staring and smiling like a fool._

On one hand, yes, it was his payment; on the other hand, the archer hoped he would pick up the hint and work from there. But for the love of Mara's holy knickers, isn't Marcurio a stubborn one. Got the pride and sass of an Imperial, he does.

_Maybe he doesn't see me that way. After all, an educated mage from the Arcane University and a mangy runaway of the Thalmor... something about us don't rhyme together._

But hey, isn't Fanris a stubborn one. Got the haughtiness of a Breton and the cunning of a Bosmer left to die in the woods.

"This... well. Whatever this... thing is, it's worth more than 500 septims." The Imperial mage said with a frown. He twirled the golden band around his fingers, thinking. "More than double of that amount, in fact. Damn it, how many mead did you drink?"

Just two bottles, and they were stale and musty enough to make him spit them back out. "Nah. It doesn't worth that much if your merchant is a sleazy old soot. Take it."

Marcurio smirked at that. Putting the ring into his satchel, he added. "That's what I like to hear. Maybe I should ask my next payment when you're drunk, too."

_You should._

_And then I'll think up a better reward for you._

Fanris winced.

_... Yffre, protect me._


	3. Whirlwind Sprint

 

 

“No.”

“YES.”

“You don’t remember what happened at Valtheim, huh? With the bandits? If I hadn’t known you, I would’ve thought you were trying to _kill_ me back then.”

Fanris looked at him, lips pursed in annoyance; his hands still gripping on a length of rope they had been arguing about for the last two hours.

Marcurio only knows two things about dragon shouts so far. One, they are some form of ancient Nord magic, and probably a field worth studying for him (if only this Dragonborn allows it); and two, they are gods-awfully loud. He’s lost count on how many times he had to wince whenever the other man screams _“Fus Ro Dah!_ ”, sending thugs and bandits flying into the Aetherius, and possibly rupturing their eardrums in the process.

There is the fire-dragon-breath thing, and the frost version of it. If there is a proper name for it, Marcurio wouldn’t know, because Fanris just insisted on calling it _fire-dragon-breath thing_. Obnoxious fool.

He remembered one instance where this shout became a problem. The pair of them were running away from a group of frost trolls in the snowy marshes of the Pale. He was hurling out fire spells while the other man showered the beasts with his arrows. It didn’t work, so Fanris took a deep breath, waited, and SHOUTED the loudest shout he has ever heard. A stream of inferno burst through his mouth—killed the trolls in one hit!

(And almost sparked a forest fire, now that he remembered it. Oh well.)

That shout was more powerful than any of his fire spells combined—and it came from someone who couldn’t work a _lightning bolt_ to save his life. Marcurio is still rightfully pissed about that.

There is another shout which enables the Dragonborn to detect all living and dead creatures, for a brief period of time. Thankfully this one isn’t as ear-piercingly loud as the rest. Fanris would often whisper it under his breath; the barely-heard “ _Laas_ ” as he scouted ahead and looked for any signs of danger. It has saved their lives more times than he could count.

But the shout detects even automatons and centurions… which aren’t living or dead. When Marcurio asked him about it, the man just shrugged, “I didn’t sense their soul. I sensed their movement.” Makes just as much _sense_ to him then as it does now.

There is a dragon shout that Fanris uses too often; it showed up in his nightmare once.

In it, they were fighting a group of marauders in an abandoned fort near Whiterun. He was surrounded, and all his magicka was used up on healing spells rather than thunderbolt or chain lightning. One sword barely missed his neck. Two steel arrows almost went through his chest. Utter chaos.

He shot a glance at Fanris who was fighting against the bandit chief—huge scary Orc fellow with full-on steel plates and a giant battleaxe. The man wasn’t fully focused, then, as his gaze kept returning to the mage, even as the bandit chief got him in a chokehold and nearly drained the life out of him. They couldn’t make it. They thought they wouldn’t.

Then, the shout.

As though a huge, voluminous force had ruptured the air itself, and sent with it the dust and debris—all the bandits in their vicinity were thrown across the field with a handful of them spurting blood from their mouths.... The sounds of ribcages breaking, that satisfying _thump_ as their lifeless bodies hit the ground....

The problem with that shout is, it sent Marcurio flying, too.

He woke up with a start. Numbness overwhelmed his body as the mage tried to get up from his bed roll, only to be shot with the most painful sensation he had ever felt. The nightmare was still rolling in his mind. Almost drove him mad.

Fanris was there, then, carefully binding adept-leveled Restoration spell on his bandages. If Marcurio had half a working brain that day, he would have been flustered at the sight of him tending to his naked wounds.

“It wasn’t a dream,” he told him.

Then, with an apologetic sigh, “Sorry about that.”

… Where was he again?

.

.

.

“Right. But this isn’t Valtheim,” Fanris shot him a challenging look. He twirled the rope around his wrist. “And _this_ is going to work, promise. Do you see any other options here?”

“We could turn around and find another way”

“And lose a day’s worth of progress? Don’t be unreasonable, Marc.”

If only he could point out that it was HE being unreasonable, and not the other way around. But it’s not worth a damn when his employer is as insufferable as a rock.

Marcurio walked up a few steps, and looked down at the bottomless pit in front of him. They were exploring a strange Nordic ruin in the Reach when they came across _this_ , conveniently blocking the way to the inner chamber and to the ancient Word Wall that Fanris was after. It was quite a gap, too. Probably as wide as a mammoth if his calculations were correct.

They had thought of making a rope bridge of some sort, but there was no post or fence they could tie the end of the rope to. And jumping across isn’t an option.

So, Fanris had an idea.

“It’s a _stupid_ idea—“

“I know, I know,” the Dragonborn cut him off. He eyed the bottomless pit for a few seconds before returning his gaze to him. “But how bad can it be? I mean, it’s worked in Ustengrav before.”

“You mean that time when you slammed your forehead to the gates fifteen times trying to get your shout right, just in time for us and Meeko to go through without getting our necks chopped off by the gate mechanism? I think I remember _laughing_ at that one.”

Fanris inhaled, deeply. “Yffre save me.”

They looked at each other for a solid five minutes, then to the bottomless pit, then to each other again. The man had a point. They really had no other option but to _do it_ , and Marcurio was already itching to get out of this ruin anyway. Those draugr and spiders packed quite a punch. If it wasn’t for his spells and Fanris’ arrows, they wouldn’t have made it this far into the ruin.

He’s going to regret this. Soon.

“Fine. But there’s a catch.”

Fanris frowned. “A catch?”

“… You’ll have to double my usual fee this month.”

The Dragonborn stared at him. The expression on his face was priceless, and if Marcurio didn’t know any better he would have started laughing right there and then. Fanris is a fun man to mess around with, he had to admit.

“But I’ve given you double last month. Wait, have I?”

“That was a godsdamned _ring_ you gave me. Yes, it’s worth more than a thousand septims, but it took me a whole, solid week to find someone to pawn it off to,” Marcurio countered. “I want some real septims this time.”

There was silence for a few seconds.

Fanris let out a heavy sigh. Rummaging through his satchel, he fished out a medium-sized coin purse and threw it towards Marcurio’s direction. “Some septims right now and the rest when we get out of this ruin,” he said with a low voice. “Should be around two hundreds in that purse. Now, help me with this thing.”

“Is this stolen?”

“Yes. Thought you’ve gotten used to it by now.”

_Sure. Whatever._

_._

_._

_._

There is a healthy reason as to why he called the idea ‘stupid’, however. It involves a length of rope, the stupidity of two, twenty-something men, lack of common sense, and a dragon shout Fanris had gotten the habit of calling “sprint really fast shout”. Seriously, didn’t the Greybeards themselves call it “Whirlwind Sprint”? Damn this Dragonborn and his limited brain capacity.

Fanris started by circling the ropes around his body. He made a strong knot at the end of it, tight enough to keep the ropes from slipping off, before extending it around Marcurio’s waist. The poor mage had to restrain himself from flinching.

_Do you really have to look at me when you're doing it?_

 “Stand closer or the ropes’ll fall off.”

“THIS is already too close.”

“Look. If you’re uncomfortable with this, I’m sorry. But you have to stand closer than that. Damn it;  _hug_ me if you have to. I don’t want to end up breaking your ribs again, y'know.”

Marcurio coughed, and swallowed his pride. Something was blaring in his mind; a sense of pain throbbing in his chest and _maybe you’ve broken my ribs already_.

The mage nodded.

.

.

.

_“Wuld… Nah KEST!”_

“SCREW YOU!”

At least the plan worked.


	4. Mara's Blessings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crossposted on Tumblr.

 

 

 

"HEY DINYA--"

"--speak quieter; we're in a _temple_."

"Right. Sorry. Hey, Dinya?"

The temple was quiet, save for a lone woman sitting on one of the benches; her hand rested on top of a book strewn across her lap. She turned around and smiled. The agents of Mara have returned, the woman thought.

Being a priestess of Mara and a Dunmer who has lived in Riften for only two years, it isn't unusual for Dinya Balu to find odd travelers who stumbled their way into the temple. This time, it was a Breton thief and an Imperial mage--as unlikely a pair as the Gods made them to be--looking to receive a healing and blessing from the Goddess of Love.

They were exactly the ones from her vision.

... Although the thief in her vision didn't look like a Breton at first, and she didn't expect the mage to be  _that_ sarcastic, but who is she to doubt the words of a Divine?

The thief had an amulet of Mara worn outside his scarf, and he seemed the more overjoyed of the two to undertake in their Lady's trials. The mage... not so much. She overheard them quarreling outside the temple just after they had accepted the first trial. If only they knew....

The first trial was of a young, blossoming love in Ivarstead. A girl who hadn't seen her twentieth winter, and the two much older men vying for her attention. Dinya was pleased to hear that they had advised the young girl to choose none, and instead pursue other things in her life. That was exactly what Lady Mara had wanted.

The second trial was of a bitter old wizard and a stern, uninterested housecarl in Markarth. This one was harder, judging from the brief conclusion they gave her; but they managed to convince the two to meet up every day after lunch. Love is a gradual process, and shouldn't be forced upon anyone. Lady Mara was pleased as well.

The third trial was of reuniting the long-lost couple of a fallen soldier, and his heartbroken, downtrodden wife--and thus concluded the final lesson that a strong love lasts until death and beyond. But it wasn't the end.

With her hands cusped on her ever-growing belly, Dinya Balu looked at the two men briefly, before looking back to the statue of Mara.

"So, Dinya," the thief said, "what's our next target?"

She didn't see it, but the mage probably stepped on his boot and hissed. "You made it sound like we're killing people."

"... or robbing people?"

"Gentlemen, please," Dinya interrupted. She drew a long, heavy sigh. "This is the house of our Lady Mara, not a tavern. If you would be silent for a few minutes?"

The two men didn't speak, although she could sense their hesitation. Just as well. Dinya brought her head low, and waited.

Images flashed in her mind. Some clear as a day, others hazy as a morning mist. Actions. Blood seeping into someone's cuirass. Lights, sparks. Laughter. A sense of overwhelming, yet intoxicating dread whenever the other person is near. Grueling fights; two figures facing a large horde of... dragons. Jumbled thoughts and muttered words. Red banners. Two battered persons smiling warmly at each other.

Lady Mara had truly spoken this time. Dinya was taken aback, for the first time in forever.

"Valiantly he slays dragons in his battles," the priestess began, having changed her words slightly so that they might understand it better. "... But words fall short... in front of the man he loves." She was ready for the punchline. "Oh, I know him!"

"Who?" the two men asked in unison, dumbfounded.

"... Fanris, it's about you!"

There was silence for... well, Dinya didn't count how long. But she did hear that it was the thief who recovered first--with a sudden coughing fit.

"What, that's not true, th-that's not--" his words were a scrambled mess. "You're probably reading it wrong. You read it wrong, didn't you, Dinya? No way Lady Mara would turn on me like this. Come on."

Dinya shrugged. "Turn on you? Why, I believe she's _helping_ you, Fanris. This is a sign that you musn't ignore."

It wasn't like she didn't know how it feels. Denying the love that she sought for so long; bitter, lonely years after the eruption of Red Mountain. Wandering the ash wastes with nothing but death on her mind.

She could see it then, even with her back facing them; that the two men were troubled and desperate individuals at some point in their lives. They had searched for satisfaction in many ways but gained none in the process. Empty wine bottles strewn under the bed of a whorehouse, dozens of tomes stacked ambitiously high on someone's bedside table. A quest to forget one's emotion, and a lust for academical perfection. They had been hurting themselves, without them knowing.

The thief sighed. "If her help is 'minding other people's business' I can see why Haelga worships Dibella instead." 

"Trust me, I know it's not easy," Dinya smiled at him, before turning her gaze at the mage. "Marcurio, could you leave us for... say, ten minutes?"

She saw them exchanging glances for a few seconds which ended in the thief giving an angry glare at the mage, prompting him to leave. He turned to look at her.

"So, uh," Fanris said, slowly. "... You take bribes, Dinya?"


	5. Arrows and Electric Shocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not exactly canon, according to Fanris' actual gameplay. A really old drabble I found collecting dust in the corner of my Evernote account.

 

"Slay it! Slay the dragon!"

_That's what I'm trying to do here!_

Amongst the guards, the howling stray dogs and the panicked citizens of Riften, one person stood out. Biting his lower lip furiously as he aimed at the angry roaring thing soaring above the sky, he wondered if the dragon ever think about how rude it is to ruin somebody's peaceful morning walk. Because it is. And  _he_ is going to pay.

He released his breath, and the arrow. It slid off of his fingers and landed on the dragon's thick scales. A cry of pain was heard, and that was all he needed to prepare the second shot. Every arrow must count. No missed opportunities. No room for mistakes.

The beast landed on the cobblestone street, sending dust and debris everywhere. His terrible visage the only thing on his mind now. Shoot his eyes. Or his mouth. Everything, as long as it puts a hurt on that monster.

He shouted.

_"Yol... Toor Shul!"_

To the untrained ears, they only saw the burst of flame gushing out of his mouth--but he heard. He recognized the word and it scared him. The fire struck the nearby tavern and scorched at least three guards alive, and made a hole on the tavern roof in the process.

_Gods, there are people inside!_

The archer released his bow and hurried inside. Most of the tavern guests had already evacuted themselves. Those still inside were mostly injured guards who had retreated to tend their wounds, or some foolhardy individuals who thought being inside a near-ransacked building would raise their chances of survival. Now, if only they had the guts to help him kill a dragon--

"Who wants to come out and fight the dragon with me?" he yelled out. The few people in the building whimpered. He felt like a fool, ordering strangers around like this--but it was a lot better than letting them killed by their own ignorance. "Come on! Would it help if this beast burn down your houses and kidnap your kids?"

"I'll fight with you," a man in mage robes spoke up. He already had Destruction spells ready in hand. "But only if you pay me first. Five hundred septims, what do you say?"

The archer was petrified. "... A dragon is attacking your town and you want to reap money from it?"

"First of all, Riften's not my town." The mage--which isn't a Nord after all, not that he cared--let out a sarcastic huff. "And second, I'm a mercenary. The best of its kind. Do we have a deal?"

For the love of Akatosh, the things he'll do to save this stupid little town with its corrupted residents...

"Consider yourself hired."

.

.

The gods must really love him today, or maybe they just have a good sense of humor.

He hadn't intended to bother with Riften and its troubles, and then this stranger just waltzed in asking for volunteers. How the universe hasn't run out of its stock of daring vigilantes is astounding. And there he was, fighting face to face with a dragon--a _dragon_ \--alongside a man he barely even knew.

The remaining guards were still shooting arrows at the big terrible thing, and he had settled with his best shock spells. The thing looked to be somewhat resistant to fire (it just spew flames at the poor tavern, after all), so firebolts were a big no-go. Would help if he knew frost spells, too. Now that would be something. He usually relied on a staff or scrolls for spells he didn't bother to memorize; two things he was sadly lacking right now.

Thoughts for later. For now, he has a dragon to kill. Orhelp kill. For 500 septims.

Interestingly, this dragon only seemed to care for the archer. The one annoying person who dragged him out of the Bee and Barb in the first place. They were within melee range, in fact. The oblivious fool kept shooting at its face with his own arrows; one by one by one by one by one....

Pretty good shots, one must admit.

Until it ran out.

The man huffed, tossed his bow and empty quiver to the ground, and reached for his sword. He began striking--dangerously close--at the dragon. Swing, swing, swing. By the gods he is a terrible swordsman. The mage almost had an irresistible urge to rip out the blade from his hand and did the work himself. Even he had a much better melee training, and he is an apprentice mage.

That didn't stop the archer from flailing his sword about, trying to struck at its weak spots and healing himself once in a while. He was exhausted; his breaths became short and labored. Stubborn fool. Any seconds now, and he could drop dead. 

_Almost sure the cemetery has been full for sometime._

His thoughts was interrupted with a shout. A shriek like none other; the dragon spat out its fire at the poor dying archer in front of it; who only made a somewhat pathetic attempt at blocking it with his ward spell.

"That's it? That your best?"

Why won't he flee? Even the most seasoned fighters wouldn't stand a chance against a raging, flame-spewing dragon, especially if their combat skill is the equivalent of your nephew's wooden sword technique.

And then it came. Another shout.

Loud, sky-shattering shout.

No, not the dragon. The archer did.

He shouted at it, and not only the sound that was let out of his mouth, but the cold wind as well. As if winter had seeped into his breath and became a real, audible shout. The mage stood dumbfounded.

_How...._

It became even harder to believe when the shout was what it took to kill the dragon. A gust of wintery wind that seemed to scald the beast off of its skin.

But the surprise didn't stop there. As the archer crouched in front of the dragon--huffing, panting; shoulders shaking and with one hand clutching tight on a wound he hadn't realized he'd received--something else happened.

The dragon's body withered, reduced into scales, skeletal remains, and a speck of blood on the otherwise clean cobblestone road. But its essence... ascended. Transferred, even. From the giant carcass into the archer's wounded body. Igniting him for a split second before slowly fading.

_What... in Oblivion._

_I drank too much mead._

The only thing that convinced him of reality was the murmurs of the guards, most of which were whispered--

"Can't believe it. He absorbed its soul...."

"Like in the legends...."

"The Dragonborn."

"Must be the same man who defeated the dragon in Whiterun."

"He used a Shout, too! Did you hear it?"

He shook his head and took a few breaths. Too impossible to be real. Too real to be a dream.

The man was still crouched on the ground, still in no better shape than the last time he stole a glance at him.

He approached the wounded man and offered him his hand. _Gods' mercy, the scars._ Even as he reached out to grab his palm, he could still feel the shaking and hot blood pumping in his veins. The archer slung up his arm across the mage's shoulder without a word, letting his newfound comrade brought him inside the now-ruined tavern.

"Don't just stand there, you oafs! Help me move this man!"

At least he did the right thing... for the first time in forever.

.

.

When the archer woke up, there was another man next to him--tan-skinned and black-haired, sporting the most orange robes he'd ever seen. And probably the brownest eyes, too. Oh, what was he thinking, he definitely needs more sleep.

It was the mercenary who demanded him 500 septims.

.

.

He couldn't have a more awkward introduction than this. Waiting by the bedside of a man who had recently shouted a dragon to death, absorbed its soul, and came close to dying because of his injuries. The man who still owed him 500 septims.

Sure, he did most of the work himself; but a contract is a contract. And besides, he's his first client since... well, forever.

If this man isn't going to pay up, then to Hammerfell he'll go.

"I don't have that much money."

"You _what_?" He knew this was coming. He also knew that he needed to act like he didn't know this was coming. "Whatever, but you promised me. 'Consider yourself hired', remember?"

"There was a dragon attack..., if you didn't remember," the archer retorted. "Any sane person would have taken up arms to kill that thing. Regardless of pay."

"No, they don't." The mage shook his head, although he silently agreed with him. "Most folks here are cowards as you can see. Guards, they fought that big flying thing because they're paid to keep the Rift safe. What's the fault in me doing the same?"

The man in front of him grumbled. Eyes narrowed into a slit, mouth curved downwards, that sort of thing.

"You have a point."

There was an odd silence for a few minutes, in which he began to scrutinize the archer more closely. It didn't take him long to recognize this "Dragonborn" as a Breton. Slightly smaller in build than an average man, and considerably shorter; though those with trained eyes could note his toned arms and long, calloused fingers (archery training, perhaps?). His hair is short, with a few unruly strands that he kept out of his face with a strip of bandana. Markings that had once been quite a festive warpaint adorned his face; dark red lines crossing the eyes and cheeks.

"... Look, I've got 200 septims... and these knicknacks I found in some ruins," the archer spoke up, breaking the silence. He opened his pouch to reveal some dusty soul gems inside. "These are all I can spare after some... thieves robbed me. Don't know how much they worth, but they look valuable. What do you say?"

The mage stared at the gems for some time, thinking. He's not exactly the enchanting type. But staffs need soul gems to recharge, and since he's definitely getting one after this dragon incident, it wouldn't hurt to accept this man's offer. But it still wouldn't cover the expenses of 500 septims. He sighed, turning to look at him.

"That's not good enough." The mage stated calmly. "But tell you what. How about I join you in your journeys and we discuss my payment along the way? After all, a mercenary usually works for a week or so. You get a helping hand killing dragons, and I get my money. How's that sound?"

The archer sighed, looking just as annoyed as he did with him--perhaps even more so.

"Good idea."


	6. Flower Circlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't actually expecting someone to read this... My English is shaky and it's not all that special. I'm pretty sure I botched up an idiom or two.
> 
> Thanks for even THINKING of reading this :))
> 
> (But also, really? Seriously?? Whoah)
> 
> :)))

 

 

"Look, Papa! I can make Candlelight!"

Papa didn't say anything. Sofie's been practicing magic again, he knew that. He gave the girl a quick look over his shoulder, nodded, then turned his attention back to the enchanting table. Didn't even bother to say a word.

Sofie frowned (an orb of light hovered lazily above her head).

"... You're not looking."

"It's a beautiful light, pup," her father said, "but I'm in the middle of something. We'll talk about it tomorrow, yeah?"

 _I'm in the middle of something we'll talk about it tomorrow_ _BOO_ , she mouthed, before storming out of the basement.

Outside, Solitude was beaming. The sun was shining and the kids were screaming—with delight, that is, not horror. Festive decorations of tomorrow's the Burning of King Olaf hung proudly over the windowsills and the rooftops. Guards and townsfolks alike were wandering about doing their business. And in the distance, the Big Solitude Windmill stood calmly against the harsh Haafingar wind.

The little girl could even smell it in the air. Morning Solitude smells like dried fish, spices, and a hint of copper. Evening Solitude just smells like wine.

Sofie likes this place, though. So bright and colorful. She doesn't know why Papa wanted her to live here, but she doesn't mind all the same. At least it's not the gray and freezing cold Windhelm.

Stepping outside Proudspire Manor, she found herself walking towards the marketplace—hunting for more smells. _Scents_ , she corrected herself.

_Leeks and cabbages! Fresh and ripe!_

_The finest fish here! Caught daily!_

_Keep the cold at BAY with our Spiced WINE!_

Sofie chuckled at the last one.

She walked up towards a familiar figure standing in front of Evette San's Spiced Wine stall _(I wonder why he's there? Is he going to buy some wine for Papa?)._ He was wearing a brown College robes and boots; a small satchel hung over his shoulder. His hair was tied into a ponytail. A simple attire, but one that she could recognize anywhere.

"Uncle Marc! Look!"

The man turned around.

"I can make Candlelight!"

... Just in time for the spell to wear off.

Sofie looked up, frowning again. Uncle Marc approached her and was frowning, too. "What? I don't see anything."

"It was there. I swear! I made a Candlelight!"

Now if there was a way to make the damned spell last longer, for the love of Akatosh and Mara... Sofie will be the one to discover it. She swore it upon... upon whatever her Papa's last name is.

"Yes, I know. I don't doubt it." Uncle Marc simply smiled at her. It was a nice smile, she noted. Kind of like the smile Papa gives her (when he's not being a sad stick). "Now, can you cast it again for me?"

She didn't even need to be told twice.

Silently, the little girl prayed. _I hope the spell works again this time please please please! She_ summoned all her will into her left hand, slowly connecting herself into the magicka coursing through her veins. Uncle Marc waited patiently.

Then, she released it.

A bright orb of light burst through the palm of her hand and flew upwards, hovering above her head like some sort of obedient firefly. It went better than she expected. _Worked! It worked!_ Sofie smiled triumphantly.

"See? I told you!"

Uncle Marc was smiling, too. She liked seeing him smiling like that. "It _is_ beautiful.... Brighter than the ones I used to make."

"You think I can be a mage one day, Uncle? A, uh... Alter...rat, Alter-at... Alter-rat-tion mage, maybe?"

"Definitely."

This is better than anything she had hoped for, really.

.

.

.

He didn't mean it like that. Him ignoring his daughter for a whole day and leaving her to play alone in the streets. Just when he is finally back home, no less.

His adventures took him everywhere. The Reach, the Pale, the ever-annoying hot springs of Eastmarch with all the bones lying around (and pesky bears wandering around). So it made sense that his purse would empty much more often than he'd like. Arrows cost too much. Potions are running low. Wealthy houses are locked-up tight. And the Thanes at the Blue Palace have started questioning his child-raising abilities amidst the task of being a Dragonborn.

 _The_ Dragonborn, more like. Now if there was one more Dragonborn in Tamriel to share this burden with, that would be neat.

So, Fanris started taking up more jobs. Something besides killing. And stealing.

He's not very good at enchanting. Doesn't know much effects other than the usual resistance stuffs. But at the same time, he _is_ good at enchanting. The act of binding—and maintaining—a filled soul gem into a piece of equipment, or jewelry; it is as important as being able to summon things and creatures from the plane of Oblivion, for a skilled conjurer.

One person wants to have their necklace enchanted. Rather than contacting the College of Winterhold (too cold, too far away, too formal), they asked Fanris instead. And he never charged much coins for a single item, to boot. It's a win-win.

Fanris used the newly-furnished basement as his workplace. A lot less cluttered than shoving an enchanting table to his messy bedroom. Besides, Sofie doesn't seem to mind....

_Sofie._

He picked up a small, bronze circlet from the table's surface; newly enchanted and still warm to the touch. Fake emerald gems and dried mountain flowers adorned the front piece. _Fortify magicka_. _Not bad._

Putting the circlet on his head, Fanris smiled, and walked out of the basement.

.

.

.

"Why are you out here, anyway? Your pa annoying you again?"

"Papa doesn't wanna play with me."

"Oh, I get it. He's being an insensitive ass again, isn't he?"

The smile still hadn't wavered when he saw the two of them, from a distance, sitting on the stone fence bordering the Solitude graveyard with a handful of Nightshade leaves piled up in their laps.

It wasn't the first time he saw them like that. A strange mage mercenary and a seven-year-old girl hanging out in the middle of bustling Solitude city and picking out all the Nightshades isn't a usual sight to see, after all. The Arkay priest complained about it, Jala the grocer complained about it, even Evette San and her drunk of a father complained about it—but Fanris paid them no mind. She's just a kid, he told them. And Nightshade bushes can regrow in less than a month.

He would know. He helped Mother with gardening, once.

The chatting continued on and he found himself a captive audience. Listening to the tone of their voice; Sofie's excited ramblings and Marcurio's smart quips. His little girl smiled and he could see the other man smiling in response. Fanris took a deep sigh. They look—

 _happy_.

There was a strange feeling creeping up his stomach.

The first time he saw them bonding together, he was jealous—in a sense. It took Sofie more than a month to get accustomed to her new father but only a week to the mercenary; something Fanris hadn't expected when he brought Marcurio home that evening. And later the feeling took a turn for the worst: becoming a sense of guilt for never spending enough time with his daughter in-between his thieving jobs. Maybe Sofie wasn't happy with him. Maybe she sees Marcurio more as a father figure, than she sees him. Who knows.

But Sofie never thought about that. The girl assured him herself. And whenever they went home after days spent inside some filthy Dwemer ruin (carrying more Dwemer junks than they had anticipated), Sofie would smile brightly than her Candlelight spell and wrap her little arms around their waists--the three of them, all wrapped up in a big, tight, comforting hug.

It felt awkward, at first. But he likes it.

(The hug, of course. Not the goofy, contented smile the two of them gave him afterwards.)

(That _he_ gave him afterwards.)

Fanris doesn't need a mercenary anymore, technically speaking. Lydia and Jordis have talked to him about it some time ago; that it would be unwise for him to keep throwing his coin for a sellsword when a housecarl or two could have done the job just fine.

Why does he keep him around, then?

"Ha! You said 'ass'! I'm gonna tell Papa!"

"Oooh no, you won't."

"Yes, I will! Yer' gonna put a coin in the swear jar again!"

_For Sofie?_

That must be it.

Fanris chuckled, touching the circlet with the tip of his fingers, feeling its warmth on his skin. _My little pup is going to love this._

.

.

.

"What is something that can fly, but doesn't have wings?"

"... Sofie."

"TIME! You're really bad at this, you know?"

"Sofie—"

"What?"

"... I think someone's looking for you."

The little girl turned around, half-curious and half-annoyed—fingers latched on to the hem of Uncle Marc's mage robes as she did so. _Is it Papa? I don't want it to be Papa._ But it was probably him anyway.

And it was.

Her father was there, standing awkwardly with this huge, warm smile on his face. It was the kind of smile she adored to pieces and Sofie had the strangest urge to pull him into a tight hug. Just like yesterday. Or this morning. Before he started staring into a circlet on a glowy table for two hours straight like he had nothing else to do.

Papa can be kind of a prick sometimes. Or an _insensitive ass_ , as Uncle Marcurio likes to call him.

But, she loves him all the same.

"Pup?"

Sofie looked up.

"You're mad at me, aren't you?"

Papa walked up to them and she could see the guilt in his eyes. Like he wanted to say something. His steps were small, hesitant—clumsy. He reminded her of Meeko when he was caught stealing sweetrolls from the Bard's College (yet again).

But there weren't any sweetrolls. Instead, he was wearing a yellowish-brown circlet with dried flowers sewn between the fake emeralds that was way too small for his head.

It looked really, really really funny.

(Uncle Marc burst out laughing.)

Releasing her grip from the other man's robes, Sofie took a step towards her father and stared at him sharply. Papa was still smiling. He was always like that. He thought everything can be fixed with smiling.

Sofie wanted to sulk at him, first. She hadn't gotten a chance to do it today. It would be weird if she accepted the apology without sulking _first_ , after all.

"I didn't talk to you since this morning, did I?" Papa asked her.

No response.

_Sulk. Sulk._

(Uncle Marc had stopped laughing, then, but he stared at the two of them with a weird, almost sad-looking expression on his face instead.)

(Why?)

"I know I didn't. I apologize. It was a big mistake and I won't do it ever again." Her father continued. Then, with another small smile, "Next time you catch me too busy looking at glowy tables again, just kick me in the shin, will ya?"

Sofie stared at him. Still.

Then she laughed.

It took her father a good solid minute to process it—and instead of laughing along, he threw her an incredulous look. "Wait, what's so funny about it? I was being serious."

"You're an insensitive ass." Sofie snorted. "If I kick you in the shin, it'll break your leg and you won't be able to go adventuring again! Healing potions aren't cheap, you know."

Papa thought about it for another solid minute. He lifted her up from the ground, ignoring the muffled "hey!" from the little girl; and placed the flower circlet on top of her messy brown hair. "Oooh, good point. I'll think of something else, then.... Do you like it?"

_Of course I do!_

But she was too busy admiring the circlet to even say it out loud. _(It's really warm on my skin... and the flowers are beautiful! Is this enchanted?)_ The thought of her father spending hours to make her a flower crown, out of all the things that he could have chosen to do this morning—it made her sulky little heart a tad bit warmer and happier.

(And it was more than that, as well.)

There are other things more valuable than a crown, the little girl realized. She looked to her right and saw her father. Not by blood, not related to her in any shape or form—but he would always hold her close and with a smile that could challenge anything on Nirn. Even tax collectors. He threatened down a bunch of tax collectors by _smiling_ at them once. It was sick.

She looked to her left and saw Uncle Marc, watching the whole commotion with a silent smile; barely a small tug at the edge of his mouth. The only other person who will always be there whenever Sofie wants to sulk, or show-off her snazzy Candlelight spell to. The only other friend she would share her plate of sweetrolls with.

 _Friend_. That doesn't sound right. More like _my other father whenever THIS father is being an insensitive ass,_ but that title was a bit too mouthful for her liking.

"This looks ridiculous!" Sofie blurted out. "But I like it. Thanks, Papa!"

"Anytime, pup."

See? Her father was smiling again. Not that she minds.

.

.

.

"Since _when_ did you become so good with kids, exactly?" Fanris eyed the man next to him; a slight crease formed between his bronze-tinted eyes.

Marcurio gave him a nonchalant smile. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought the mage was trying to flirt with him. _Oh, I wish_. "Well, unlike you, I am a natural when it comes to charming people. Children, especially. I'm very... _likeable_."

 _Sure you are_ , Fanris scoffed. _Suuure you are_.

Likeable or no, Sofie was happy around him, and that's the only thing that mattered. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe he should keep him around longer. Maybe he should double the payment somehow (Never mind, screw the last one. Goodness knows Marcurio demanded way too much coins already).

The sun was already setting when they made their way home. Sofie wanted to bake sweetrolls for dinner. He could already imagine the sweet scent of sugar, melted butter and whipped cream in the air... and possibly a huge column of smoke if they didn't get to the kitchen fast enough. Oops.

"You know, I still keep that swear jar in case you wanna pay." He nudged the mercenary on the shoulder, giving him a sly grin as he did so. "Insensitive ass..., hmm?"

"... I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did."

"Prick."

"Five septims per word."

"Wait, three!"

"Ten."

"... SCREW YOU!"


	7. Lightning Bolt (and Necromancy)

 

 

_Destruction school is for the weak._

_Destruction school is for the weak._

_Destruction school._

_Is._

_For._

_The weak_.

Fanris stared intently at the electric sparks slithering in his palm; his brows furrowed deep as he tried to concentrate it into a small lightning bolt. He failed. The bolt shizzled into nothingness. He tried again.

_Come on, come on!_

Failed again.

Annoyed (and with his magicka reserve already on the brink of emptiness), Fanris summoned another bolt of lightning, concentrated it for a short while, and _threw_ it at the man standing next to him. He's had enough for today. "You know what _I'm really into_ right now, mage? Besides a huuuge cask of Cyrodiilic Brandy? ... Skewering _you_ with a really big spear."

Marcurio snickered. "Just admit it. You can't work a Destruction spell to save your life."

"Hey!"

It wasn't his fault Mother never taught him lightning bolt, was it? When it comes to magic, Fanris merely used it as tools to complement his role as a scout and ranger. He summons bow and arrows from the Oblivion. He resurrects corpses with the soul of daedras and familiars. He uses healing magic to bolster his companions and allies. He summons familiars to make up for the half-Bosmer's inability to command animals. The usual, little things.

Marcurio, on the other hand, thinks that learning magic should encompass _all things_ —from armor spells to a godsdamned fire storm—many of which Fanris never bothered with. The true wizard. Master of the arcane. Nonsense.

Even the word "wizard" makes his eyes twitch.

"Try again."

Fanris threw him an annoyed look before returning his attention to the spell. Soft, cracking, bluish light flickered between his fingers, giving him an odd sense of warmth he had never felt before. He began charging it again. Slowly.

The bolt flared up.    

And disappeared.

Marcurio winced. "What?"

"Magicka empty; can't do anything," Fanris spoke with a huff, rubbing the inside of his palm. The spell left a slight burn mark on it. "Alright. Damn it. I have a natural talent for _botching up_ Destruction spells. Drains too much energy." There was a brief pause (Fanris had to regulate his breathing again—running out of magicka does bad things to his body). "Unlike _you_ actual mage types."

It was only fortunate that they were in Solitude and not out adventuring. Fanris had taken a break from the Thieves Guild's small jobs since he started the enchanting business; finishing up the paperworks for Proudspire Manor's ownership and taking care of Sofie along the way. Marcurio only tagged along because he wanted it. And because Sofie likes him. Fanris doesn't know why he keeps the mercenary around, to be honest.

In some way, Solitude reminded them of the Imperial City. Maybe that's why.

Anyway, if they had been adventuring right now Fanris would definitely be dead with his empty magicka pool. No weapons and no healing spells.

"Can’t regenerate your magicka, can you?" Marcurio asked, reaching out for the other man's palm and did a closer look at the burn marks. A simple healing should fix it easily. "An Atronach. I should've guessed."

"... Hey, why are you grabbing my arm?"

 _Oops_.

Fanris was quite content with his summoning and healing abilities. A branch of old magic taught by his Breton-blooded grandmother, who was supposedly an outcast witch from Daggerfall. He never really learned what caused the woman to flee High Rock—some rumors said she was involved in court intrigue, some said she had an experiment that went awry.... But if the woman hadn't stumbled her way into Western Valenwood many years ago, Fanris wouldn't be here today. In a sense.

 _Old magic_ which, according to Marcurio's fabulous wizardry vocabulary, is just another term for "forbidden magic".

Fanris is still rightfully pissed about that.

"What are you going to teach Sofie, then? _Necromancy?_ " The mage countered (and promptly put the hand down awkwardly). "Not that I'm against it or anything, but if words got out that the _Dragonborn_ is teaching a little girl how to resurrect her pet rabbit, I don't think the rest of Skyrim will be too happy."

"First of all..., it's not Necromancy." Fanris interrupted. Gesturing at the ghostly little wolf that had been cheerfully chasing Meeko as they speak, he let out a long, heavy sigh. "I put a familiar or daedra on a corpse. Doesn't even have to be human corpse! Second, 's not like I give a skeever's ass what the rest of Skyrim say."

"You're using a corpse. _That's_ Necromancy."

"Not if I don't thrall them, it's not."

Marcurio grumbled.

At the end of the day, talking and arguing won't solve anything—and both of them knew that. Fanris was good enough just watching somebody throw a firebolt or chain lightning and never bothering to learn them himself. No amount of words or insults will ever convince him otherwise.

There is a certain beauty in Destruction, he had to admit. The sparks and dazzling colors, the warm sensation on his fingertips—the sight of a huge thunderbolt disintegrating a poor bandit’s flesh into nothing but ash; chain lightning jumping from one body to another…. It’s sickening—and satisfying. Almost makes him want to stop and admire, if Marcurio wasn’t too much of a snob already. _Damn it._

“Wanna try again?”

“You bet your ass I don’t.” Fanris scoffed. The lack of magicka was starting to give him a headache. (Why would Mother birth him on 30th of Sun’s Dusk, anyway?) “I’m gonna go grab some Spiced Wine…. I need fresh air.”

_Destruction school is for the weak. Destruction school is for the weak._

Stepping out of Proudspire Manor’s basement, the Dragonborn slowly made his way to the marketplace—accompanied by the mage, and a snicker of laugh that followed him afterwards. “You know, I taught that spell to _Sofie_ the other day and she did it better than you.” He sneered. “A _lot_ better, in fact. She aimed it at the cooking pot and almost set the house on fire.”

Fanris stopped walking.

“You did what.”

“… What?”

“WHAT?”

“It’s better than your Necromancy.”

“I don’t teach ou— _my_ daughter _Necromancy!_ ”

"Why, yes, you do. You're _going_ to!"

"SCREW YOU!"

.

.

.

Sitting by the stone walls of the Solitude graveyard, was Sofie—blissfully picking out Nightshade flowers and putting them on the holes of her new enchanted circlet.

Her “fathers” are always bickering like that, it seems. The little girl shrugged. Better leave them alone.


	8. Lake Ilinalta

 

 

“I can’t believe you’re paying me for _this_.”

“Thalmor assassins, Marc. Thalmor assassins.”

“Quit calling me ‘Marc’. And can’t you just have your housecarl do the same thing?”

Fanris frowned. Adjusting the position of the sleeping child on his back, he drew a long sigh, and muttered. “Look. First I’ll pay you double— _again_ —goodness knows you’re going to bleed me dry eventually—second, Lydia doesn’t know anything about Thalmor assassins and I intend to keep it that way. Third, Sofie likes you more than she likes her. That answer your question?”

If Marcurio was secretly planning a murder behind his back, Fanris wouldn’t know, and he was too bothered to care. All that mattered to him right now was his daughter. Everything else was secondary.

It all started from Sofie. She had her birthday on 17th of Rain’s Hand, around three months ago—and spent it alone in her house, sitting by the fire and waiting for her Papa to come home. He’d promised they will celebrate her birthday together. She held on to that promise, until the clock turned midnight and the poor girl fell asleep with her cheek pressed against the dining table. A single plate of sweetroll sat patiently next to her.

Fanris got home late. Drenched in sweat, still shivering from their last encounter with a Thalmor—he hugged his daughter tight, and shuddered.

But that was three months ago. And he’s going to make up for it.

There is something to be said about this secret camping spot near Lake Ilinalta. It’s beautiful, it’s secluded—and it offers the best view of the lake, the forests surrounding it, and the silhouette of Bleak Falls Barrow in the distance. During his early days in Skyrim, Fanris utilized this place as some sort of a hiding spot from the Thalmor. The fact that it’s only a few meters away from the nearest shrine of Talos only makes it _better_.

Right, so maybe this isn’t the best hiding spot in the world after all.

But, hey—some of the best camouflages are done in the open, no? Whatever that means.

Fanris sighed, and turned his sight at the small, sleeping figure that was still clutching onto his back. He whispered.

“… Hey. Sleepy-head. Wake up.”

Sofie groaned. 

“We here already? I thought we’re going to Falkreath?”

“This _is_ Falkreath, pup. Look around.” Slowly getting his daughter off of his back (and silently thanking the Gods because Sofie was _way_ heavier than he had expected her to be), Fanris pointed at the lakes. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

The little girl stood quietly for a few seconds. Her brows furrowed, her face perplexed. She walked up to the edge of the lake and let the waters filled her shoes. 

Looking up at her father again, she muttered.

“Papa?”

“Uh-huh?”

“… Where’s the whale?”

Now it was Fanris’ turn to be perplexed.

“A whale? I... didn’t say there’s gonna be a whale. They don’t live here, pup. Lake’s too small for them. But, we can see dragons flying around here, if we’re lucky.”

Sofie thought for a while. Feeling the cold water under her feet, she had a strange urge to dive in and search for the whale herself—but Marcurio had gently grabbed her wrist before she got too far away. “Aww. Kayd says there’s a huuuge whale living under the lake. But it’s not true, is it? He lied to me, isn’t he? … Skeeverbutt.”

Fanris sighed again.

Taking care of a seven-year-old girl, amidst the dragons, the Thalmor assassins, and the Civil War, is one thing. Teaching her not to use swear words is another.

He’d rather focus on the former.

.

.

.

Several minutes later, they had already laid out their tent; with Sofie stubbornly decorating her bed roll with blue mountain flowers. She sprinkled the flowers on the edge of the bed, smearing little blue petals everywhere—some of which were already crushed and flattened by her knees and palms.

The mage jokingly called it “interior designing”.

Fanris doesn’t even know what the word ‘interior’ means.

“Are you kidding me? It means the _inside_ of something. For Gods’ sake.”

“… Why does Cyrodiilic have another word for ‘inside’ when you could’ve just used that word, then?”

Marcurio groaned.

Not many activities to do in Lake Ilinalta besides the obvious fishing, bird-watching (“I wanna do _fish-watching_!” Sofie yelled just five seconds ago, running to the edge of the lake whilst her father was scrambling to keep her under control), and keeping an eye out for any signs of dragons. There are even _less_ activities to do when you’re babysitting a seven-year-old girl and her dumb excuse of a father. Picnicking, lazing around the fire all day, harvesting useless flowers…. Goodness knows if it wasn’t for the promise of pay, the mage wouldn’t bother to be here at all.

Or would he?

Turning his attention away from the Dragonborn and his little girl, Marcurio grumbled to himself. He’s not a family man. Maybe he’ll never be. Children are a nuisance to him; _parenting_ is even more so. Give him a single kid to take care of and he will probably make them cry in five minutes flat. Or five seconds. Or three.

The mage scoffed.

_You’d make a terrible father._

_You_ are _a terrible father._

Seeing his employer with a little kid on his own—a daughter who provokes so many bitter memories of a time long gone—felt like a sudden, painful slap across the face. One that he did not appreciate.

“Do you think I can shout like you do? Can I try?”

“Maybe… but not all people can.”

“But how did you do it, then? You just have to shout, don’t you?”

“Well, I, uh—“ Fanris thought for a moment. “It’s because… because I’m a _half-dragon_. I have a, uh, a huuuge pair of lungs so I can shout as loud as the dragons do!”

Sofie gasped, awestruck. “… Ooh! Does it mean your parents is a _dragon_ , too?”

“Wait; no no, that’s not what I meant, that’s—“

Marcurio snickered at himself ( _think of all the possible ways a dragon could mate with a human…_ ). It was cheesy, but he found himself smiling nevertheless.

Maybe he doesn’t hate children as much as he thought.

Maybe he _never_ hates them. He simply hates himself for never giving him— _them_ , not _him_ —a second chance.

_(Let’s not think about it anymore.)_

Minutes turned into hours and when it was time for lunch, both Marcurio and Fanris cursed themselves for having to fish in the dead cold water of Ilinalta, sitting quietly with fishing rods in hand—with Sofie talking their ear off about an ancient Nord hero who has been cursed to live as a giant whale since the dawn of the First Era. She knew the whale isn’t real, and Kayd is a big skeeverbutt for lying to her; but she found the idea too amazing to pass up anyway.

In her own words,

“What if there’s… an _actual_ whale down there? Maybe he was a warrior, from the time when there was dragons in Skyrim. The Gods turned him into a whale because he was a big meanie. And… every night, his spirit would come to Falkreath as a half-human half-whale and scare everyone in there!”

Sofie _is_ quite a storyteller, if they had to admit.

“Name him Rjollnir Storm-Strider,” Fanris suggested. Relaxing his grip on the fishing rod, he turned towards the mercenary, and grinned. “He was a warrior from Falkreath whose last mission was to topple the Empire and all nosy Imperials. Especially Imperial mages.”

“Hey!”

None of them liked fishing, but Marcurio had it worst. If it wasn’t for Sofie, he probably would have dropped the fishing rod since minutes ago, crawled into his bed roll, and slept until evening. _Damn fish._

“He’s a hero from the First Era,” the little girl continued, a lot more seriously this time. “And he was REALLY tall. Taller than giants and dragons. Am I right, Papa? Dragons are tall, right?”

In all honesty, Sofie never truly saw a dragon, let alone a giant. When a dragon attacked Solitude a few weeks ago, Lydia had her stay inside Proudspire during the whole commotion; not even letting her to take a peek from the window. Fanris doesn’t take any chances when it comes to his daughter’s safety. He may be lenient, but he’s not stupid.

Anyway, where was he again?

“Yep. Dragons are tall. Giants are tall. The mountains are tall. Everyone and everything in Skyrim are tall. Even Jordis is a head taller than me.” Her father scoffed. “You know tall heroes are boring, right, pup?”

Marcurio sneered. “Spoken like a true short person.”

“Hey!”

It took them an hour and a half, sweat—and literal blood when Fanris decided to head down into the lake himself to catch some slippery spadetails with his own bare hands and got his thumb bitten by a slaughterfish in the process—but they finally had enough fish for lunch. Plus a couple of slaughterfish, which Sofie didn’t want to touch at all, and a handful of butterflies, which Fanris plopped right into his mouth. The loud _crunch_ that came afterwards only made it even worse.

“… Why would you eat that?”

“Because it’s tasty?” Plucking the legs off of his second butterfly, the Dragonborn shrugged, before putting it into his mouth again.  “These’re snacks, you know. Better than the plants you humans are so obsessed about.” He caught another butterfly. “Here. I’ll pick them out for—“

“No, no. Thanks. But… no.”

Fanris laughed. “Come on; it tastes better than the torchbugs. Good for your health!”

“Unless it’s for alchemical purposes, I’d rather pass.” Marcurio shuddered, his eyes shifting away as he flinched. “… Damn you and your Valenwood practices.”

“What’s a Valenwood?” Sofie chimed in. “Is it like a plant? A tree? A—“

“A house.”

“A house?!”

“It’s a home. _My_ home.”

Fanris smiled warmly, then, and pulled his daughter into a tight embrace; resting his chin on top of her messy brown hair. Sofie chuckled at the sudden attention. “Papa, you smell weird.”

“You’re not the first person to say that.”

“… Who’s the first person, then?”

“My mother was.” Her father muttered. Adjusting the position of the little girl in his lap, he continued, “She was quite a stubborn old lady, my mother. She said, ‘Fanris, if you keep rummaging through that dead sabre cat just to find my amulet, you’d smell so bad by the end of it not even I would want to kiss you goodnight!’ Her words, right there.”

“… Is she a bad mother?”

“No, no. She and my father were some of the nicest people on Nirn, in fact. At least I thought so.” Fanris chuckled at himself. Then, after thinking for a while, he added. “Not many people could say the same about their parents, you know? I should consider myself lucky.”

_You should._

At this point, Marcurio had long vacated the camping spot; slowly walking away until Fanris and Sofie’s ramblings were out of earshot. He needed fresh air.

It was sickening; and the whole commotion felt like a huge sucker punch to his stomach. Seeing them like that, too peaceful and content at the world; laughing at each other and making smart, childish comments.

He tried not to think of it.

It was like seeing another mage student practicing their adept-leveled Destruction spells; they do everything _he_ already knows, but they do it ten times better. And every spark, every movement of their hands serve as a reminder that he will never be as good as them, as anyone else—that he _could_ have been as good as them had it not for his own arrogance, and foolishness.

It was the equivalent of wishing to retake an exam he had failed so badly in the past. If he could rewind the time, he would take it again, and _again_ —he would do everything ten times better, and much more.

And at this point, all the subtle euphemisms became too ridiculous to handle.

Fanris would never know that. Yes, his family was slaughtered by the Thalmor and all that, but it’s not like the Dragonborn ever had a mistake he wanted so desperately to fix. Their problems are their own. Best keep it at that.

By evening, the excitement had died down somewhat; with Sofie already fast asleep when he returned. Fanris was sitting by the fire writing his journal. The usual sight.

Marcurio nudged on his shoulder briefly before sitting down next to him. The man didn’t even flinch.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Falkreath. Went to buy some potions but didn’t find any.”

“Hmm.”

He was lying. He was always fond of lying.

Lake Ilinalta was even more beautiful at night. He immersed himself in its beauty for a while; admiring the stars and their constellations.  In a distance, the Lady Stone stood forlornly watching over the lake; her light was but a dim reflection upon the water. And somewhere down below, Rjollnir Storm-Strider the accursed whale slumbered deeply, waiting for the day he could once again walk as a human. He’d probably return to his Empire-hating days once that happens. He would have fitted well in the ranks of the Stormcloaks. Marcurio tried to amuse himself with such thoughts—to no avail.

There was something he had to say, first.

If he could find the will to say it, that is.

“Is she asleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

Fanris wrote some more things in his journal, and only the Gods knew why he bothered with it so much. He never seemed like the journaling type. The only reason Fanris ever gave him was that he had memory problems, and had to journal his days as much as he could lest he forget about them. At least his employer was being honest.

The mage tried to peek into his journal, once. That was a decision he soon regretted. The _whole_ entry was written in some strange language—possibly Bosmeri—and Fanris reveled in the fact that he would never know what it was all about. _Oh, just you wait, ‘Dragonborn’. I’ll find out. Eventually._

But that was not what Marcurio wanted to talk about. Not tonight.

“You’re a—you’re a good father.”

That took him off-guard. Fanris closed his journal, then stared at him; confusion clear in his eyes.

For a second, he thought the man would have laughed at his poor choice of words. It came right out of the blue, after all—any sane person would not have expected that kind of compliment. Marcurio waited, then. He expected him to laugh. He _wanted_ him to laugh at it.

But Fanris only stared at him in disbelief.

“… Really? You think so?”

“What, oh—yeah,” the mage blurted out. “Kind of.”

That response alone invited a smile on the other man’s face, as if he had said something unequally amazing, like _you just won a year’s supply of Cyrodiilic Brandy,_ or _the Thalmor are no longer trying to assassinate you! Congratulations!_

“… Wow. Always thought I’m bad at this ‘being a parent’ thing. Everyone thinks so, anyway,” he added afterwards. He still had that goofy smile with him; although his eyes had already wandered to the night sky above. “The Companions say I’m too lenient with her; the Guild says she’ll get in the way of my jobs; everyone says I’m not cut-out to be a father….” Fanris began to ramble. The mage sighed, but kept on listening. “… But here you are, a mercenary of all things—saying the opposite of what they always say.... That’s a first.”

Marcurio grimaced. “Is that sarcasm?”

“Does everything sound like sarcasm to you?”

Fair point.

There was a few minutes of silence where Fanris added some more lines into his journal, before tossing it into his satchel, and shifted his attention back to the mercenary. None of them had anything worth to say. None of them felt the need to.

“Well, don’t take this the wrong way—I’m just saying you’re a good father because, uh—because you’re willing to be her father, when no one else would.” Marcurio threw his gaze away. He thought for a while. “You… _don’t have_ to be her father; you could’ve just sent her to some orphanage, or another family. But you didn’t. And that’s… that’s not something many people would do.”

Fanris could have responded by many things. His expression said so; a jumbled mess of sentences he would have spilled out had it not for his own inability to weave words in fluent Cyrodiilic. He probably wanted to snicker and laugh; or deny the compliment; or call it a joke—and Marcurio waited for it. It’s okay. _It was a stupid compliment, anyway._

But Fanris didn’t do any of those things.

“Thank you,” he said, breaking the long silence. “Really. I mean it. Thank you.” His smile widened, then—and his gaze softened in a way that he hadn’t seen before. It was… strangely comforting. “You don’t know how much that means to me—when I thought I’ve screwed everything up, it’s… nice to know I still do _something_ right.”

“Yeah. Just don’t tell Sofie I told you that,” Marcurio added quickly. “She’ll get the word out that I’ve lowered my standards low enough to call you _good._ Can’t have the Dragonborn getting too big-headed on top of being dumb as a rock, can we?”

There was a slight pause. “… Wait; does your compliment _always_ come with an insult? I thought we’re already friends.”

“For you, yes.” Marcurio snickered. “It’s a two-in-one package.”

Fanris groaned.

There was something else, too; one that he did not care to mention. He simply didn’t know the word for it. A newfound sense of respect, and some kind of admiration mixed in—and a strange, heart-aching need to see _that_ smile again. What’s the word for it? Is there even a word for it?

He could say, _“You’re a good man, Fanris. Don’t let anyone say otherwise.”_ But it wouldn’t be entirely correct. It wouldn’t even be _close_ to what he wanted to say in the first place.

There was something else.

Marcurio didn’t dare to think what it was about.

“You know… I like to think I’m giving Sofie and myself a second chance.” The Dragonborn spoke again, half-muttering to himself. “It’s easier to think of it that way, instead of the usual heroic crap. We both suck at keeping our family together. Although with her, it was more of her father’s fault. Anyway.” There was another pause. “It’s not… it’s not like what I had in Valenwood. She can’t replace the family I had in the past, and I can’t replace her father who died in the war. But it doesn’t matter.” Fanris smiled at himself, chuckling faintly. “What matters is, we have a family now. The past is the past.”

This time, it was Marcurio’s turn to be taken off-guard.

He hadn’t expected that at all.

The words still rang clear in his mind even hours later, when everyone had already fast asleep in their beds and he was left lying awake, thinking of all the possible things he would have done but didn’t get the chance to do. He couldn’t sleep. Not even by knocking a magic staff to his head and pretend to black out. He simply couldn’t.

The pain has been gnawing at his heart for so long, ever since he left the Imperial City. In fact, they still do.

But the words intrigued him so much he kept replaying it in his head, over and over.

_The past is the past._

The idea sounded foreign to him—weird. _Aren’t we all supposed to be responsible for our actions? Aren’t we bound to our sins for eternity?_

Somehow, the truth is far simpler than that.

Marcurio amused himself with the thought; maybe this scatter-brained, butterfly-eating excuse of a man and his silly little daughter who asks too much questions is the “second chance” he secretly yearned for… but never thought about before.

Maybe.

And, for some reason, it doesn’t sound so bad—if it’s true.

It’s a strangely comforting thought, if anything.

 


	9. High Hrothgar

 

 

“So… what will you do, when this is all over?”

They had been walking down the path to Ivarstead, kicking small rubbles and twigs along the way. Yellow aspen leaves and overgrown canis roots filled the panorama; butterflies fluttered around and foxes jumped skittishly between their feet, hiding behind one tree to the other. In a storybook, this would have been a particularly romantic scene. If Fanris even knew what the word “romantic” means.

And _by all that’s divine, don’t even—_

Marcurio doesn’t cherish the idea of climbing up the 7,000 steps to High Hrothgar again, to be honest _(If only there were a Dwarven elevator of some kind… one of those small, moving rooms with a lever….)._ But the horn of Jurgen Windcaller wouldn’t deliver itself to the Greybeards, and if it wasn’t for Delphine’s little stunt and the Thalmor party fiasco a while back, they would have forgotten about it altogether. So, up the 7,000 steps they go.

_Those Greybeards must have waited for quite a while._

_Bah, to Oblivion with the Greybeards. Whose idea was it to build a fort so high up on a mountain anyway?_

_Oh, yes._

_Jurgen Windcaller._

“Why are you asking?” Marcurio finally answered, repressing all thoughts of _I want to murder this wind-calling man with my own bare hands_ for the time being.

Fanris shook his head. “No. Nothing. Just… just asking.” Then, as an afterthought, “You going back to Cyrodiil?”

There was a long silence.

He wanted to answer by many things. About Imperial City, his family house in Bravil, the University, _a small cemetery southwest of Lake Rumare_ …. Marcurio thought about it for a while, and he could imagine the perfect sentences, word arrangements, _all the lies_. He’s a master of it, anyway. Cyrodiil is a cold dead grave disguised as a bustling materialistic province. He loathed it; but he could make the telltale nonsensical stories of it all the same.

But Fanris probably wouldn’t appreciate that.

“I haven’t thought about it,” he simply said. The pre-constructed lies had all scrambled out of his mind by that point, and the mage had nothing but the cold, bitter truth left. He decided to evade instead. “What do you mean ‘when it’s all over’ anyway?”

Fanris shrugged. “When… _this_ is over. You know, when the dragons are dead and I can finally focus on other things.”

As if the dragon problem is something they can solve for a mere fortnight.

“Well, my contract with you will be over. I guess.” Marcurio mimicked the shrugging. Something about those words made him flinch _(why?)_ , although he remained on talking. “Then I’ll find someone else to work with. Or, return to the Imperial City, if this civil war allows it…. Depends on the situation.”

“Eager to replace me with another die-hard adventurer, eh?” the other man quipped. He sounded joking, but the expression on his face looked anything but. “Fair enough.”

_Shouldn’t it be the other way around?_

There was another pause, where the two of them waited for the other to continue the conversation—and realized that they _both_ had been doing the same thing, without any desire of taking up the responsibility themselves. Their stubbornness intermingled into a long, awkward silence. And he cherished it.

Fanris was still staring at the cobblestone road ahead of them, possibly looking for any sights of those pesky bears. Marcurio took the opportunity to stare at him, his entire figure. Possibly in more ways than what is acceptable.

_… Divines help me._

The Dragonborn isn’t exactly what he would call handsome. At least, _his_ idea of handsome. If someone were to ask him about the kind of qualities he finds handsome in a man, Marcurio would say, instead—short, black hair and tan complexion; bronze eyes that he had once mistaken for amber from a distance; toned arms, a warm, goofish smile that could challenge anything on Nirn….

_Screw this._

Fanris is a flawed example of what a handsome man should be—in a sense. He’s a fine mold crushed and crumpled into the pit of ugliness, eaten by the burden of being a Dragonborn and a father. Burn marks adorned his face, gnawing at his left arm; crawling with all sorts of dried scars a normal person wouldn’t dare to look at. His vain attempt at covering them with warpaints and bandages only proved the point further.

If there was a version of Fanris without the flaws, or burn marks—now _that_ would be a sight to see.

Marcurio stopped himself from thinking further.

“Been thinking of moving out of Skyrim myself,” his employer spoke up; the words forcefully pulled him out of the foolish daydream. They took a turn towards the bridge that led to Ivarstead. “Maybe High Rock, or Cyrodiil…. Maybe Morrowind.”

The mage frowned. “Don’t you have a big manor in Solitude already?”

“Proudspire? Yeah. It’s a nice house.” Then, with a voice dripping with the all-too-familiar sarcasm, Fanris added. “If the place isn’t crawling with Thalmor.”

  _Oh. I get it._

There was nothing else to say, and they both knew it. Even as he took the first out of 7,000 steps to High Hrothgar—throwing one last glance at the Vilemyr Inn in the distance, his mind wandering to the one time Wilhelm asked about _the_ _amulet of Mara_ and his employer getting all flustered about it, him wanting to scream _‘take off that damn thing already or half of Skyrim will think you want to get married!’—_ he felt no urge to bicker, or complain about the weather, as he always did. They trod up the path in silence. Thick clouds and gray horizon loomed above.

Whatever was getting into his head for these past few months, Marcurio blamed it on the mead. 

He’d been drinking too much mead around him lately. _Must be it._

“You’ve been quiet.” He felt a gentle nudge on his elbow. Fanris was talking again. “Hey. Are you sick?”

_Very._ “Get out of my hair, Fan.”

“Fine, you i—heeey, who told you to call me like that?”

“You called me ‘Marc’ yesterday.”

“ _Marcurio_ is too mouthful!”

“Oh, really? Why, you get all riled up when someone gets _your_ name wrong,” the mage snidely replied.  “For starters, I don’t even get why it has to be _fahn_ and not _fan_ —why it’s _reese_ and not _ris_.” Glancing at the man next to him, there was a strange sense of satisfaction seeing him flustered over his explanation. “You’re setting up high standards for such a simple name.”

Fanris simply stared at him; agitated, but at the same time finding himself lacking enough words to argue.

He chose silence instead.

They took a sharp turn to the left. Passing by the carcass of a frost troll they had killed on a previous encounter, the path ended in front of a small, tombstone-shaped shrine before continuing to the left—a steep slope that led towards another shrine. The wind had grown bone-chillingly cold at this point. They wrapped up their cloaks around their body in unison; both secretly wishing they had worn something warmer before going up the steps to High Hrothgar.

He would take the cold any day. It’s a much better option than being suffocated inside his own invasive thoughts.

“Marc?”

The mage felt no need to object anymore—strangely so.

“Hm?”

“Call me _‘Fahn’_ if you really have to. But,” Fanris spoke up, slowly, as if he had to look up every single word in his mental dictionary before coughing them out. “Just… just—just keep it to yourself.”

Marcurio frowned at that.

“Why?”

“Nothing. ‘S just—I’ve never had anyone calling me that for a very long time. The last time someone used it, well….”

His words faded into silence.

“What?”

“Nah. Nothing.”

Strange, indeed.

The stone walls of High Hrothgar loomed in the distance. Still as unwelcoming as the last time they had been there—and the damned cold didn’t help much. Fanris fished out a small box from inside his satchel and studied it for a while. The ivory-polished horn glistened faintly under the morning sun.

He nodded at the mercenary, silently asking him to go first. Marcurio shook his head.

“I’m… I’ll stay here.”

“But it’s dead cold in here.”

The mage winced. “What; you think a little cold can kill me?”

_Might as well fake a little dignity before there’s nothing left._

In truth, he felt he was dying already.

“Alright. Fine. No need to get your knickers in a twist.” Putting his palm on the door’s surface, he hesitated, before turning towards the mercenary again. “You sure you’re not sick, though? Your face looks like a… steamed mudcrab.”

“… What?”

“Kidding.”

Fanris gave him a small smile—a fleeting chance he had never gotten before—which soon dissipated into a neutral expression and left him wanting for more. If only it had lingered a moment longer; if only _he_ had—

_Don’t be an idiot._

There was that horrible feeling again when his employer finally entered High Hrothgar. The mage shuddered, pulling up the linen cloak even tighter. It didn’t do much to protect him against the cold, he realized; but it wasn’t the cold he was trying to protect himself from. This was something else entirely.

_It’s_ not the mead, _it’s_ not his body, and _it_ certainly isn’t because of the harsh Skyrim wind.

Marcurio forced a small, bitter chuckle.

He’d take this stupid horrible feeling any day. If it means working for the Dragonborn for all eternity..., so be it.

_At least the pay is nice._


	10. Horkers (and A Sudden, Murderous Intent)

 

 

Marcurio has worked with many people in the past. Many of which were single, attractive, charming, witty, adventurous—

“For Gods’ sake, Fanris. That damned smell is giving me a headache.”

 _and_ weren’t covered from head to toe in horker blood.

The cold was unforgivingly harsh this afternoon; on the northern side of this damnable chunk of ice the locals aptly named ‘Winterhold’. As if it wasn’t already clear Winterhold exists in perpetual winter. Imagine if the place were called ‘Summerhold’ instead. Who would have thought?

Marcurio has worked with many people in the past, but not one of them has ever dragged him to a place as cold as _this_. Not any colder than Dawnstar, at least.

“Whatever, Mannimarco.”

“HEY!“

Fanris sneered, wiping the blood off of his arm with a piece of stained napkin.

He had to endure a few more agonizing minutes of his employer tearing off strips of fat from the horker’s belly. Neither Fanris nor the horker were very appealing to look at, so the mage turned his gaze away and pretended to sleep. It didn’t help. The sound of hunting knife slamming itself against hard ribcage, blood spurting out from severed tendons and blood vessels….

And to think he’d had his fair share of “experiments” back in the University.

“You got to help me out a little here.”

“ _What_ help?”

“Anything. Anything but sitting pretty.”

Marcurio gave him a hard stare, turned around, and threw a pocket of dry vegetables from behind his shoulder. It fell with a satisfying ‘thump’.

“Hey, that hit my face!”

“Whatever, Dragondumb.”

Fanris pulled a face, stashing the pocket inside his backpack.

It wasn't going to be like this. They weren't supposed to be stranded in the middle of wet, snowy, bone-chillingly cold Winterhold in the first place; with only Gods-know-what lurked beneath the ice. Slaughterfish. Cannibalistic horkers. A pair of giant, frost-covered dragons who had been sleeping since the First Era. Anything.

_I really should've stayed at the Frozen Hearth Inn last night._

The snowstorm had passed since an hour ago, but they still weren't safe from deadly frostbites and hypothermia. They retreated to the driest patch of land they could find in Northern Winterhold and set up a camp. Fanris took it upon himself to hunt some horkers for lunch. He used up an entire quiver of arrows for it, not even trusting the mage to lend him a hand—“don’t want our food to taste like void salts and lightning!" he reasoned.

_Insufferable prick._

Never mind that. If anything, they should be happy to be here, alive and breathing. Still.

.

.

.

"… What was your question again?"

There was an awkward moment of silence as the mutterings slowly crept into his mind; the archer struggling to keep his thoughts in line as he wondered _who’s talking? He has a nice voice. Not that I judge someone’s attractiveness by their voice alone, but this one…. Oh._

Fanris doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s been happening more often than he’d like.

_Who’s talking?_

_Well, who do you think, genius?_

It had started with them minding their own business, purposefully avoiding each other’s gaze as they walked amongst the foul-smelling springs of Eastmarch tundra, or the snowy marshes of the Pale.  They would only talk in single sentences; short questions that mostly end in ‘yes’ or ‘shut up’. Fanris doesn’t mind the silence. He quite prefers it over the mercenary’s inane babblings. After all; _Dwemer civilization this and Arcane University that_ does get boring after a while….

That’s what he likes to think, anyway.

Fanris doesn’t even remember what started the silent treatment. Maybe it was an argument over the Thalmor. Maybe they simply ran out of conversations. Maybe Marcurio doesn’t want to work for him anymore. All reasons aside, the silence was a refreshing change, and he welcomed it wholeheartedly. Much easier this way.

At least, until it made him _think_.

Fanris doesn’t like thinking. He will gleefully shout at dragons with a gust of arcane fire, but _thinking_ is where he draws the line.

_He walks slower than I do. Slightly slower._

_I wonder if I can borrow his staff and make a spear out of it. Much better than having to carry a back-up dagger for him, anyway._

_Does he even like spears at all?_

_… That wasn’t supposed to be a euphemism._

_He’s taller, but slim—for an Imperial. My clothes are one size bigger for his built, but a bit shorter for the limbs._

_Ugly mage robes don’t do his figure much justice._

_Wonder if he’s had any lovers back in Cyrodiil…._

_Someone as smart as him, perhaps. Wouldn’t that be something._

_Need to walk a bit slower. Just… slower. Let him walk ahead of me._

_He has nice hair. Pity it’s always done in ponytail._

_Wonder if he’s any good in—_

“Fahn?”

The archer turned around, eyes wide in shock. “What? What?”

“I said, _what_ was your question again? You did just ask me a question before.”

Fanris stared at him for some time. Did he? He can’t remember it. But then again, his memorizing skill _really_ isn’t something to brag about in the first place. A bit embarrassing, for a twenty-six-old man. If not slightly disconcerting.

_Oh yes. That question._

_Thank the Gods I can remember it._

"… Do you have any other partn—uhh, _people_ —you've worked with before me?"

The rough Winterhold wind had grown colder at this point, and much crueler to the skin—although the storm also died down somewhat. He watched as the mage fished out a bundle of linen cloak from inside his own backpack, unfolded it, and draped it on top of his shoulder before finally looking back at him.

"... I'm not sure I'm following."

"You’ve been a sellsword longer before I came to Riften.”

"Oh. You mean that.” Marcurio threw his glance away. “Sure, I've worked for other people in the past. Mostly foolhardy adventurers and thieves like you. Why do you ask?”

The archer shrugged, and continued with his business. His arms were already elbow-deep in a pool of dark, wet, sticky horker blood.

Something about those two words— _“like you”—_ made his eyes flinch.

_Glad to know I’m not special._

He should have guessed, really. Skyrim abounds with travelers, warriors, ruggedly handsome lads and stunningly fierce lasses. Another archer-thief with a knack for Conjuration magics wouldn’t be too out of the ordinary.

"Right. Those... people." He settled with the most natural-sounding question he could come up with. _Oh, damn it. There’s that chest pain again…_. "Care to tell me more about them?"

The mage gave him another glance, and for a second he could almost imagine a _smile_ forming on his lips. Just his imagination, probably. Fanris took a deep sigh and reverted his gaze back to the horker.

He wished he hadn’t asked that question.

.

.

.

The next thirty minutes was spent on Fanris, holding a bloodied knife with its edge jammed inside a dead horker's belly; all the while listening to the mage's ramblings about all the people he had once worked for.

Never had he felt so _passionate_ about gripping a bloodied knife before.

A ravishing Dunmer spellsword. A stout Nord lass who didn't know how to hide her assets. A charming Bosmer thief who knew his way around swords (and...  _swords_ ). An Imperial bardess with a voice most fair. A cocky Altmer with a penchant for Illusion magic. A—

"... There's also this… woman," Marcurio spoke again, after taking a sip from his waterskin. "Well-mannered. _Unusually_ well-mannered. She's a real professional with her bow."

Fanris tried to ignore it.

 _Stab_.

"... was once a Companion from Whiterun. Do you know she could shoot a running deer... or a wolf, just as it leaps right at you? You should've seen that; it was _really_ impressive."

“Yeah. Sure.”

 _Stab_.

"... And it wasn't actually that long ago. Think I met her sometime after we parted ways for the first time? After your job in Markarth? Yeah. Probably three days after, at most."

“Oh.”

 _Stab_.

"... Long brown hair, bright green eyes. Not a slouch in magic, too." The mage smiled at himself. He had that _look_ on him; the usual look of someone in love. Fanris knew it all too well. "… You know, whenever she moved her lips, I couldn't help but—“

 _STAB_. 

"Fanris?"

He turned around.

What he found next was a tired, angry-looking man—splattered with blood from head to chest, with a few specks dripping from his hair and the tip of his nose—aggressively hacking up a large slab of meat with his bound Conjuration sword. The old hunting knife he had previously used lay broken on the snowy ground.

If Marcurio hadn't known better, he would have thought Fanris was in the middle of butchering someone.

"... What happened?"

"Oh, uh, y’know. Gripped that knife too hard and the handle just... broke right off. So I had to use… this." The archer shrugged, dispelling the conjured sword from his hand. "Don't mind me."

There was an awkward silence. On Fanris'part, anyway.

“… Are you alright?”

“What? No. I mean, no. Really. We’re surrounded by blocks of floating ice, in the middle of nowhere, barely surviving hippofermia or whatever you call it, and the only lunch we get is a horker and two bottles of cheap mead,” he evaded, frantically; a last ditch attempt at saving his dignity with whatever Cyrodiilic words he managed to scrounge up. “And besides, I’m… I’m _never_ alright. … You know I got dragon souls in me, yes? Little bastards are crawling inside my brain, day and night. The Greybeards never told me anything. Maybe I should try bringing Martin Septim back and give all these souls to him, instead.”

Marcurio gave him a blank stare.

“That’s quite a reason,” he stated, calmly. “Try saying it again at the poor horker you just butchered to pieces, maybe?”

The look on his employer’s face was priceless.

“What… what horker.” Fanris looked down. “… Oh.”

He even hacked up the _tusks._

.

.

.

Needless to say, none of them enjoyed their lunch that day.

The horker meat was fine, but the tension was a little too much. Fanris even had contemplated on throwing his portion out to the sea. Let some poor slaughterfish gobble it up. He’d rather go hungry for another day.

_And to think I’m being easy with this whole crushing thing._

He _is_ being easy. That’s what he likes to think, anyway. Don’t overdo it, don’t let it affect him. Don’t start gushing like a thirteen year old kid with their first childhood sweetheart.

At least Marcurio smiled that day, for a reason he still hadn’t figured out. Does he know already? Probably not.

_Ouch. That chest pain is at it again._

Nobody told him falling in love would hurt as much as falling off a cliff. Nobody warned him.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos. You made my entire 2018 year :)
> 
> As for this chapter, I'm blaming it on this https://youtu.be/uS7vpGkro3U song.


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